Phobovore
by Cackothree
Summary: John hasn't been sleeping well lately. Every night it's the same horrifying nightmare; get chased by a monster, trip, and wake up in a puddle of nervous sweat. He's sure that it's an artifact of his subconscious mind; nothing that a trip to the psychiatrist and a few pills wont cure. Then he meets a certain alicorn princess of the night and learns the horrifying truth...
1. Chapter 1

_John scrambles through the dark forest, trying his best not to trip._

_It's easier said than done. His flashlight only shows a small part of the trail at a time, every inch of which is covered with roots, holes, and vines more deadly than any landmine. He isn't so much running as he is dancing._

_It is a dance that is slowly wearing him out. John's legs burn from fatigue. His mouth is drier than dust. He can't keep this up much longer._

_John risks a quick look behind him. The monster is featureless, shrouded by the night, but John can hear the sound of countless snapping mouths coming from its body. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they're hungry for. John's feet kick into overdrive. His body overrides all pain signals, all demands for a rest are put on hold. _

_John sees the headlights of a car in the distance. Somehow he know that it is his. He gains a second wind, his joy overcoming his exhaustion._

_Just as he's about to reach the car, John's foot catches on something, sending him sprawling face-first onto the dusty trail. He flips himself over to see the creature leaping towards him. He screams_…

"_GAH!"_

John awoke with a nervous start, his body dripping with sweat.

The 24 year-old hugged himself, half-expecting to see the monster staring down at him.

_It was just a dream, it was just a dream it was just a dream…. _he repeated to himself like a monk chanting a mantra.

John scanned his tiny apartment with the scrutiny of a detective. He drank in the dingy apartment; every crack in the wall, every stain, every piece of cheap furniture was like a powerful medicine, purging the nightmare from his brain.

Once John felt at home in the sane world, he slumped back onto his bed. He looked at his ancient clock radio and groaned. It was fifteen minutes past three; about four hours since he went to bed.

Last night it had been 3:30

With a zombie-like groan, John peeled off the sweat-soaked bed sheets and picked himself out of his secondhand bed, his joints popping like strings of firecrackers. He dragged his body over to his tiny bathroom and splashed himself with water. As an afterthought, he looked into the mirror;

To put it lightly, John was a wreck. His mud-brown hair looked as though something was using it as a nest, and his eyes looked as though he'd been using saltwater for eye drops. His eyelids were underscored by large, almost raccoon-like dark patches, making him look like he'd just applied eye shadow.

_The hell is wrong with me? _

John rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Every night for the past week, he'd been having almost the exact same nightmare: he'd be chased by a monster, he'd trip, the monster would jump, and he'd wake up in a puddle of nervous sweat.

No matter what he did, the dreams kept coming. Warm milk, going to bed early, sleep aids: all useless.

A toothbrush rested in a glass, its bristles frayed worn by countless brushings. John picked it up, squirted a little toothpaste onto it, and brushed.

Now that he thought about it, there was something weird about the dreams. Last night there hadn't been a car, or a flashlight. And the night before there hadn't been a forest, just a featureless black void. It was like a blurry image that was slowly coming into focus.

John spat into the sink and sent the spit-toothpaste mixture to oblivion with a twist of the handle. That wasn't all that was weird. Most dreams evaporated as soon as you woke up, leaving behind a few scattered impressions and images. These nightmares stuck to the mind like hardened molasses. John could remember every single bit of them down to the tiniest rock on that trail.

A jaw-cracking yawn erupted from John's mouth. He plodded back to his bed and laid down. He knew how this was going to work. He'd try to go back to sleep, but he'd be so worked up by the nightmare that his brain would refuse to shut down. Most likely he'd spend the rest of the night studying his ceiling and counting down the hours 'till dawn.

_Really gotta see a psychiatrist._ John thought as he plopped his scrawny frame onto the bed. Yeah, a psychiatrist; one of those Sigmund Freud-types with the couch and the questions about his mother. They'd be able to fix whatever the hell was going on in his head. He was pretty sure his insurance would cover it.

With a resigned sigh, John rested his head on his pillow and stared intently at the ceiling, drinking in every crack, every ridge. He turned his head towards the clock radio: 3:48.

It was going to be a looong night.

_Elsewhere…_

_A blue winged unicorn flies/swims through the dreamscape, searching for her prey._

_The dreams of a trillion different races from a trillion different universes float around her like soap bubbles. The gauzy, impossible bubbles are in constant flux, bubbling out of the dreamscape, drifting for a while, then popping into scraps of feathery dream-stuff. Winds of ideas and emotions blow around her, pushing the dream-bubbles wherever they please. _

_The alicorn sniffs the dreams- her unique senses, attuned by centuries of experience, detect the scents of countless different dreams: the sweet perfume of pleasant dreams, the heady musk of…erotic dreams, and the charged, fear-sweat smell of nightmares. _

_Slowly, the alicorn looks back towards the dreams of her own people, both a thousand lightyears and a single footstep away. Normally she would be tending to those dreams, using her centuries of experience to soften nightmares, maintain pleasant dreams and make sure the erotic dreams do not get too out of hand. It is her duty. Always has been. Always will be. _

_But not now. With great reluctance, she turns her head away, leaving the dreams to play out without her guidance. Nightmares play through unmitigated, while pleasant dreams and erotic dreams twist themselves into bizarre shapes. _

_She has something far more important to do first. _


	2. Chapter 2

John hopped off the bus, his jaw aching from almost constant yawning.

"Hey buddy!" The bus driver yelled.

John slowly rotated his head. "Yeah?"

"Ya' really oughta go to bed earlier. You almost slept through your stop."

John grunted; he didn't have the strength for a response.

The bus driver shrugged. "Just sayin'."

With that the bus drove off, leaving John in a cloud of sooty exhaust.

John plodded down the rain-soaked sidewalk towards his apartment, cradling a bandaged hand. A massive yawn almost cracked his jaw in half.

If only it were that easy…

Needless to say, after the nightmare, John hadn't slept a wink. Not for a lack of trying of course; he'd tried every trick in the metaphorical book to get himself to sleep.

he'd started out by thinking relaxing thoughts; moonlit beaches, puppies, icecream, tha kind of stuff. Everytime, his thoughts inevitably turned to the nightmare. When that had failed, he'd tried a glass of warm milk, and had spat it out when it turned out to be sour. As a last resort, he'd tried the age-old technique of counting sheep; he'd reached 357 then gave up.

Defeated, John had just laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling and counting the

hours until dawn.

John looked at his bandaged hand. Work at the foundry had been murder. The intense heat had made his sleepiness even worse; during his shift, he'd drained a whole pot of coffee and two energy drinks and that had only blunted the drowsiness. Near the end , they'd worn off entirely and, in his sleep-fogged state, he'd absentmindedly touched an ingot which hadn't completely cooled.

John rounded a corner plodded into the dilapidated apartment complex. He walked down the hallway to his apartment.

"Hi."

John turned around. It was his neighbor, Maria.

"Oh, hi" He mumbled, then yawned. "Been a while."

"Sorry. They've been having us work double shifts at the hospital." Maria said "Just got off this morning actually.

The dark-haired latina noticed his hand. "Are you all right?" She gasped, examining his bandaged hand. "What happened to your hand?"

"Nothing'." John said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. " Nothing. Just a little stupidity on my part. Nothing serious".

"Sure looks serious. And what's with your eyes? You look terrible!" Maria put her hands on her hips. "C'mon, tell me what's going on?"

John rolled his eyes and told Maria about his nightmares. Maria was a good friend; maybe the only true friend he'd ever had, but sometimes she could be a little…overbearing. More like a second mother than a friend.

Maria held up a hand. "Wait right here." Maria dashed into her apartment. John could hear her digging through a cabinet, muttering something in Spanish. With a groan, John leaned against the wall, waiting for her to find…whatever it was she was looking for.

_You should really ask her out._

The stray thought cleared John's sleep-fogged mind for a minute. Ask her out? No he couldn't. They weren't like that, not at all. He and Maria were just friends, nothing more.

_You've been "just friends" with her for two years. You talk to her practically every day. You smile every time you see her. Face it, you like her. You _really _like her._

John slumped, defeated by his own mind. He couldn't deny it any longer. What he felt for Mariawent beyond friendship. It was time to take it a little further.

John started gathering up all the courage in his body. He could ]a fierce warmth grow in his stomach. He took a deep breath; this was it.

Maria rushed out of her apartment. In her hand was a pack of gel capsules.

"Here." She said, pressing the foil-sealed pack into John's hand. "They're left over from a little bout of insomnia I had a while ago." She shrugged." They're a little old, but they should still work."

John nodded. "Thanks Maria." He didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd already tried sleep aids.

Maria smiled. "Don't worry about it. You should also see a doctor or a psychiatrist while you're at it"

John couldn't' help but smile back; screw the common cold. Maria's smiles were the most contagious thing on Earth.

She looked at her watch " I've got some time to kill. There anything you want to talk about?"

_This is it John. The moment of truth._

John silently groaned. That phrase was so overused. He let the courage circulate through his body.

"Well, Maria I…" He stopped. In his mind he saw countless different scenarios: Maria rejecting him. Maria saying she only wanted to be friends. Him making a huge mistake during their date…

I…I…

"What is it?" Maria asked.

John tried to force the words. He couldn't do it. It was as if someone had blocked off his voice box.

"I…I…just wanted to say, uh, haveaniceday!"

With that, John dashed back to his apartment and slammed the door shut. He slapped himself repeatedly. "Dammit!" "Dammit Dammit Dammit!"

John sauntered over to his bed, picking his way through piles of dirty laundry and empty soda cans. He sat down. He'd done it again. Fate had handed him a golden opportunity on a silver platter and he'd blown it.

_Story of my life really. _John fluffed his pillow and laid down. Maybe a little nap would help clear his fogged-up head.

Two hours later found John staring into a microwave, watching a bowl of ravioli spin on a grease-splattered platter.

John yawned, rubbing his eyes; the nap had done diddly-squat for his exhaustion. If anything, he felt worse than before.

_Beep!_

John grabbed the little bowl of pasta and carried it over to a cheap card table. He sat down and started slurping the reheated food down.

_Funny. _He thought, licking sauce off his spoon. _I've got the feeling that there's something I need to be doing. _Something clicked in his head. _Oh right. Call a psychiatrist_

John grabbed his phonebook and turned to the "P"s. He whipped out his cellphone, and started dialing the number of every psychologist in town.

It was frustrating, to say the least. Most of the local psychiatrists were either booked solid or were on some long vacation. It was as if the universe was conspiring to keep him from getting help.

Finally, after what must have been an hour on the phone he managed to reach one. He'd have to wait about a week for the appointment, but it was better than nothing.

A warm blanket of relief settled over John's mind. Maybe then he'd get some answers. And some pills.

John looked around his tiny apartment. "Now what?" His eyes fell on an old typewriter on a secondhand writing desk. "Might as well finish revising that manuscript." John muttered. He poured himself some Rockstar and scanned the manuscript like a machine.

The story had been years in the making. It had first taken root in high school, when boring classes had clashed with John's overactive imagination. Back then, it had been a pleasant fantasy, something to kill time until class let out. Now, it was a massive, 500-page epic-his magnum opus.

John skimmed through the pages, giving the little manuscript one final look through. He'd revised the thing more times than he'd cared to count, plugging plot holes, tightening up dialogue, even throwing out whole chapters that he'd thought were unnecessary. There was very little of the manuscript that hadn't been altered in some way.

_And now it's perfect._ John beamed like a father seeing his firstborn son child. Yes, it was perfect. He literally couldn't find anything wrong with it. Perfect dialogue, perfect imagery, perfect characterization, perfect everything.

John reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope laying on the card table. Enough revisions, it was time to submit this mutha'.

John opened the envelope and started stuffing the bulky manuscript inside.

_What if it isn't perfect?_

John frowned. No, that was ridiculous. He'd revised this thing so many times it wasn't funny. Trying to make it better would be like trying to make the sun brighter.

_You sure about that? Keep in mind it's your manuscript. _

True. He could hardly be an objective editor when the work he was reviewing was his own. What was flawless to him might be utter crap to someone else, and the last thing he wanted was to submit something less than perfect.

In fact, what if it was crap to begin with? What if the story he'd been working on for years was so mind-bogglingly stupid that the editors wouldn't give it a second glance?

John pulled the manuscript out. He flipped through the pages; trying to make up his mind.

_Submit it. Don't submit it. Submit it. Don't submit it. Submit it…_

John opened his desk drawer and slipped the manuscript inside. Maybe he should wait a little while to submit it. At least until he could find someone else to review it.

John yawned and looked at his clock. Half past 11. He'd been at this for hours and he was exhausted.

A spike of fear arced through John's system. No, he didn't want to go to sleep. The nightmares would come back; stronger and more vivid than ever. He just wanted to stay awake. Stay awake and the nightmares couldn't get him.

John shook his head. No, he had to get some sleep. Nightmares or no nightmares, he had to get some sleep.

With a resigned sigh- one of many he'd made that day-John plodded over to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then laid down on his bed. He clasped his hands together.

_Lord, I know we haven't talked in a while, but could you please _please _help me get a good night's sleep? That's all I ask, Lord, a good night's sleep. _

As an afterthought he added _Amen…_

With that, John closed his eyes and let his conscious mind dissolve into oblivion…

_The winged unicorn stomps her featureless hooves on a dream-stuff platform._

_She has scoured the dreamscape for her quarry, sniffing the nightmares of countless species from countless worlds. So far, nothing._

_The unicorn lets out a frustrated snort. She has to find it before it's too late; before it infects another world._

_Suddenly, the ethereal winds shift. The unicorn catches a whiff of her quarry and gags. The stench is unbelievable; to a human, it would be like standing upwind from a landfill during mid-summer. Nevertheless, it is a trace, the strongest she's ever smelled. _

_The unicorn braces herself and launches her equine body through the dreamscape, following her prey's trail like a bloodhound. The dream-winds blow a cluster of bubbles into her path. The unicorn flies through them without a second though, shredding the dreams into feathery scraps. Beings from a thousand worlds find their dreams abruptly ended._

_The stench grows stronger. The unicorns eyes begin to tear up, the stench is so great. Each tear floats off, transforming itself into blobs of mercury and gold, before fading into the ether. Steeling herself, the unicorn follows the scent trail. Finally, she locates the source of the stench: a newly-formed nightmare with a fear-smell unlike anything she has ever smelled before._

_The unicorn's horn glows. With an expertise few can match, she carves a hole in the nightmare-bubbles' skin with her horn. She squeezes her way through._

_She will _not_ let it get away. Not again._


End file.
